


While I Was Away

by CripplingSelfDoubtWithAKeyboard



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Gore, Pining, Torture, dark!Sherlock, fun with knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CripplingSelfDoubtWithAKeyboard/pseuds/CripplingSelfDoubtWithAKeyboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't take two years to take down Moriarty's web but chose to stay away</p>
            </blockquote>





	While I Was Away

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a nice little thing. Posted it kind of hastily, so there might be some missed errors and stuff. Might make a sequel if I have time, but who knows. Anyway enjoy and special thanks to Haley for not choking me out when I keep mentioning my writing! This is only my second posted fic, so comments and constructive criticism welcomed!

Being alone did not come difficultly to Sherlock Holmes.  
After all, he had spent his childhood alone, and half his adulthood. He rather liked it, actually, the solidarity. His own company seeming to suit him the best. 

That was before the anomaly that is John Watson. 

John Watson was wonderful. He was...Bearable. That in itself was a miracle.  
Being with John Watson didn't feel like having company. It felt just as nice as being alone, as if John was merely a extension of himself. 

Sherlock never minded being alone with John. 

He grew fond of his noises, of his routines, of his conversations. He found himself noticing the lack of his presence on cases, even getting distracted by it. The flat would be too quiet without him there, the cab rides too empty. Even the high of the puzzle seemed less promising without him there to share it with.  
Slowly but surely John had burrowed his way into Sherlock's life, leaving a permanent impression there. Like a cancer cell, undetected and undeterred. 

Being alone had never bothered Sherlock before. Now it grated at his mind, tugged at his stomach, made his skin crawl.  
He found himself being oddly reminded of his rehabilitation days- The craving. John Watson had become his drug. He was cocaine and heroine and ecstasy all wrapped up in one. The perfect concoction specifically designed for Sherlock's demise.  
And there was no rehab for this. Sherlock _wanted_ him. At all times he longed for him, thought of him, of ways to get back to him. 

Despite Mycroft's wishes and his own better judgement he went to see him- _had_ to see him. It only made things worse- The cravings just grew stronger.  
John- Perfect, amazing, kind John. Of course he took his best friend's death badly. He had months of grief(Months spent thinking about Sherlock. John grieving for _him_ ). The cane had made a reappearance. That had probably been the most annoying thing. After Sherlock had spent time curing it. How irritating.  
But, naturally, John was a soldier. He carried on. Worked at a clinic, got a girlfriend.  
Mary- Mary was a problem. A blemish on Sherlock's plans. Mary was not expected.  
And John liked Mary. Oh, he liked her. Sherlock read it in his smile and in the small touches to her back and arms. And it stung.

Irrelevant. 

Mary provided John with a distraction(Made him forget Sherlock)  
She provided Sherlock with irritation.  
She was unplanned, and yet there she was, on John's arm. Sherlock was in the shadows. The temptation was heady. All he had to do was step towards him. 

Like walking on a tightrope. 

Mycroft wouldn't be happy. Wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had ignored his instructions to do something selfish and impulsive. Still, Sherlock didn't move. Want aside, it was hardly the thing to do concerning John's safety. Or concerning his emotions, for that matter.  
So instead, Sherlock inched backwards, further into the alley. He watched as John cheerfully ushered Mary into a cab.  
A misstep and a bin tipped over. Sherlock internally winced. John's face turned towards him. Merely a curious glance, nothing more. Sherlock closed his eyes and counted.  
 _1......2.....3.....4......5_  
He reached ten. John was gone. 

 

~ 

The motel was hardly five star. It smelled like urine and bile and cheap sex.  
Sherlock sat by the grainy window, knees drawn up, phone gripped tightly in his hand. The uneven glow from the flickering streetlight outside barely made any impression on the dark room, it's weak rays barely outlining the battered furniture. Sherlock didn't mind. He wouldn't be there long.  
He waited. 

....  
 _He was back at the flat, the muted television casting the living room in shadow. Where was John?_  
'Sherlock?' John was standing in the doorway, face hidden in the dark. Not fair. Sherlock wanted to see.  
He stepped towards him, trying to look. John stepped back.  
'You lied.' He was unhappy. But Sherlock was alive- He had returned...  
Sherlock opened his mouth to explain- John would see if he could just explain. But John was moving back, moving to leave, his body getting swallowed in the darkness of the hall.  
'No.' Sherlock's voice finally came, fierce. A growl. John couldn't leave. He'd just came back...  
He stepped forward, seizing him. He had to explain- Had to make him see-  
John let out a howl of pain. It vibrated in Sherlock's ears, ran down his spine and burned his insides. He begged Sherlock to let go-  
'You're hurting me...Please, you're hurting me...' He sobbed.  
Sherlock did not let go. He wouldn't.  
John was his. John had to stay, had to listen-  
Another scream, louder than the other. John started to shrivel, a decomposing corpse. Sherlock held on in horror, John's dying body falling against his chest.  
He shook him, demanding he stop. John couldn't die, he'd just gotten back to him!  
But the corpse merely stared with glassy eyes, face slack. Sherlock shook harder.  
The body began to ooze. Crimson dripped out of his now empty eye sockets, poured from his open mouth to cover Sherlock's front and hands.  
Sherlock groped desperately, trying to force the liquid back into the body- John needed that!  
But the body shriveled further, until it was red-stained sand, sliding through Sherlock's fingertips and onto the floor.  
Sherlock fell to his knees, watching in horror as it slipped between the floorboards.  
'No....' He sobbed, hands still held open for the now absent body, 'You were supposed to wait...'

 _'I was protecting you....'_

 

....

Sherlock woke with a start, his phone clattering to the floor, screen alight. He blinked rapidly, still expecting to see the stain of red on his hands, but they were clean.  
Dream, then. He exhaled, deleting it. Traces still lingered. He ignored them.  
He bent over, collecting his phone. He had one message:

Found him.-MH 

Face lit up by the soft light cast from his phone, Sherlock grinned. It was absolutely wolfish. 

Where?-SH

~ 

Sebastian Moran fell at his feet, bruised and defeated. And he knew it.  
The realization of it shone in his eyes. Sherlock grinned, his teeth showing. Moran's expression hardened.  
"Well? Do it." The gall. Even on his deathbed, he's commanding something. This just won't do.  
Sherlock smiled. "Oh, don't worry Mr. Moran. I will, in do time." He responded evenly, running his knife along the length of the others abdomen, just barely touching the skin, "Wouldn't want to rush things."  
Moran's eyes widened, a delicious victory. Finally, an inkling of what really was happening was beginning to dawn on him. About time.  
Now, Sherlock could actually start. 

 

The memories come in flashes. Some striking and vibrant, others a dull roar of colors and sensations.  
Sherlock remembers it like so: 

He's a lot more patient than he had thought he'd be, cutting and carving exact lines across his body. Well, they'd be exact if it wasn't for Moran's thrashing about. Unfortunate. 

The blood doesn't bother him. It streams freely, unopposed. Sherlock is vaguely reminded of a dream- Unimportant. Moran is on the edge of going hoarse. 

He is a work of art. A masterpiece of crisscrosses and lines. And red. He's started begging. He is ignored. 

'P-Please...' It's a testimony to his strength that he can even form words. He coughs red. It splatters into the pool forming around them both,'Kill me.' Sherlock leans forward, tugging the knife out before plunging it in again. He waits for the scream to die, ending with a gargle- Like a drowning man. 'Soon.' 

Eventually, the screams died down to exhausted whimpers. Moran barely had the strength to breathe, let alone struggle. Sherlock's face must be covered in specks of his blood- He can taste it. Doesn't bother him. He smiles.

Sherlock let's the knife fall, listens to it clatter dully. Sebastian Moran is dead.  
Come clean him up.-SH  
He leaves his phone.  
~

 

Sherlock stood outside, coat hanging loosely around him. It was cold, even with it. Above him, a window had its blinds pulled up, warm lamplight bathing a patch of street in front of him. Tentatively, he held his hand in it, fingers wiggling as if to feel it.  
A car pulled up. He closed his eyes.  
"Sherlock."  
"Brother."  
Mycroft came to a stop beside him, following his gaze. "Ah."  
"You can't stop me." Sherlock all but whispered, voice controlled.  
He sighed. "You know you can't." Sherlock ground his teeth.  
"And why not? I've waited more than long enough." He spoke, eyes opening to glare at the elder Holmes.  
He faltered when he saw Mycroft's expression. He looked...Sad.  
"Sherlock." His voice sounded like an apology. Sherlock's hands balled into fists,"Look at yourself."  
The jacket hid it from sight, but Mycroft obviously knew. He had seen. Sherlock hadn't bothered to change. Blood still stained his clothes, clung under his fingernails.  
He looked away, back up at the window. "It is done now."  
"You know it's not."  
Sherlock said nothing.  
"Think about him, Sherlock." His voice was soft, coaxing. Sherlock despised it.  
"Would he really want to see you like this?"  
Despite himself, Sherlock's expression softened.  
"I...I have to..." He started weakly.  
"You'll hurt him. If you do."  
The traces of a nightmare poked at him again.  
He watched the window as a couple passed by it, giggling. A man with a soft face, graying hair, and blue eyes. A man who made Sherlock crave and want and kill and need.  
"Fine." He sighed, pulling an annoyed expression,"I hate it when you're right." 

He stepped away from the lamplight, further into the cold London night. Mycroft gestured to the car. Without looking back, Sherlock climbed in.

 

~~~~  
 _"I'll bring him back to you, Doctor. In the end..."_


End file.
